


it's time we danced with the truth

by violet_sunset



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley needs a hug, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Praise Kink, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sort Of, The Fall - Freeform, he gets one don't worry, implied praise kink, mostly crowley needs reassurance that he's not worthless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_sunset/pseuds/violet_sunset
Summary: Crowley has a bit of an issue with the fact that he can cry when other demons cannot. Not only can he cry, but he really can't help it whenever he does. At least he has his beloved angel to help him through it.Title from Lorde's "Sober"





	it's time we danced with the truth

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Projecting onto my favorite baby boy Anthony J. Repressed-Feelings Crowley? Surely not.

Demons aren’t supposed to be able to cry. No demon ever has. Except for one.  
  
Crowley always wondered if it was a side effect of Falling — if the tear ducts were irreparably scarred from the burning and the torturous transformation. And then he wonders why he can still cry, because every time he thinks too long on his Fall, his eyes overflow with tears and he finds himself choking down the sobs. Maybe it’s an additional punishment. Overly emotional angel… so pitiable, now watch the demon scream and wail, his weakness on display.  
  
Of course, Crowley tries not to cry in front of anyone, including Aziraphale. But the day he thought he lost Aziraphale, he couldn’t hold it in. He sat in his Bentley for far too long, wailing at the top of his lungs as if his screams could somehow resurrect the only thing he’s ever loved entirely. Nowadays, in the wake of the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, Crowley is finding it difficult to keep his emotions in check. It’s like that day broke something inside him, releasing a 6000 year reservoir of accumulated pain and pining and fear and wrath and… and love.  
  
“Dear boy, are you even listening?” Aziraphale asks out of seemingly nowhere.  
  
Crowley blinks, zoning back into the conversation he was apparently missing. He remembers quickly where he is. Sushi restaurant, quaint, across from the object of his all-consuming affection. “Er, wh-uh… sj— I… yeah, yes, yes, ‘course I’m listening.”  
  
Aziraphale shoots him an unimpressed glare, but Crowley doesn’t take it to heart. He can feel the fondness radiating off his angel like sunlight. It’s warming and yet sends a chill up his body, flickers of an ancient yearning alighting in his limbs.  
  
“Yes, well, I rather think it’s time we head home,” Aziraphale offers. His tone suggests a question, though Crowley is more than happy to return to the bookstore.  
  
“Right,” he agrees. “I’ll cover the bill this time.”  
  
Aziraphale grants him a warm smile. “Thank you, dear boy.”  
  
And in a recently practised fashion, Crowley doesn’t protest the gratitude. They don’t really have appearances to keep up with anymore, given that Heaven and Hell are no longer dogging their every move. Instead, Crowley tips his chin down to peer over the rims of his sunglasses as he returns Aziraphale’s smile. It is a strangely domestic thing, and Crowley wishes he wasn’t so highly emotional. He clears his throat abruptly and nudges his sunglasses back into place with the knuckle of his forefinger, embarassed by how watery his eyes have become.  
  
Luckily, Aziraphale is already busying himself with collecting their flatware and utensils into a neat stack. Makes it easier for the servers. Crowley leaves a hefty tip tucked under the edge of his water glass before they make for the cashier’s counter, walking perhaps a little closer than they might have when they still tip-toed along the tightly divisive line between their respective Powers That Be.  
  
  
  
Unfortunately, Crowley can’t hide behind his sunglasses or a flimsy excuse to leave the flat whenever he feels a good cry coming on. He’s expended every possible explanation for needing to leave the flat (groceries; a spot of lunch; plant food; a pen to replace Aziraphale’s favorite and very much lost one), and Aziraphale has expertly explained away each excuse (I shopped yesterday; Crowley, you don’t even eat; you have half a box still stowed away; I found my pen hidden rather terribly underneath a sofa pillow — Crowley is there something going on?)  
  
And now Crowley is trapped and mere seconds away from tears because Aziraphale just had to call him “darling one” when Crowley was feeling perfectly miserable. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, mind racing and heart beating entirely too fast inside his host’s chest. Crowley finds that, suddenly, he can’t breathe well. This is what always happens when Crowley feels he’s lacking a purpose. He gets locked in a feeling of worthlessness, and usually he can cope (sleep away a century, get hammered for weeks and years on end, scream himself voiceless), but now he’s cornered and his face is wet and — _shit_ , his face is wet.  
  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, but his voice is more of a breath. He crosses the distance between them in just two long strides, hands coming up to cradle Crowley’s face so tenderly it hurts. “Oh, my dear, please tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
Crowley sniffles in an entirely undignified way. Without his direct permission, his hands creep forward and take fistfuls of Aziraphale’s sweater, dragging the angel closer. “Sorry,” he chokes out. He isn’t sure what for yet. The touching? Messing up Aziraphale’s sweater? Being such a fucking mess?  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Aziraphale soothes. His brow is furrowed and he looks so sweetly concerned, and it just makes Crowley cry harder.  
  
Demons aren’t supposed to be able to cry, but no demon really ever fell in love, either. Never loved the supposed enemy, never lost that love to what Crowley falsely presumed was hellfire, never spent millenium shoving aside those feelings until they petrified and gnarled and cracked and screamed to be heard, to be respected.  
  
It occurs to Crowley that he’s apologizing over and over, unable to stop himself. The tears are coming faster, the dam now broken and the contents spilling into the soft woven fabric of a honey-colored sweater. Aziraphale’s arms are around him and it feels so good that Crowley can only cling tighter and sob out more apologies, battling the sounds of Aziraphale shushing him, soothing him like one might comfort a frightened child.  
  
“Why?” Crowley asks suddenly. He’s shaking, so much violent hatred for himself swelling into his limbs.  
  
“Why what?” Aziraphale asks, voice rumbling through his chest into Crowley’s.  
  
“Why care for me?” Crowley asks. His teeth clack together as he tries to control how badly he’s shivering. He’s never understood why exactly Aziraphale gives a shit about him. He was too sinful to be an angel, too imperfect for the other demons to fully accept him, too weak, too scared, too soft, too worthless—  
  
“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale murmurs into his ear. He squeezes Crowley close, runs a hand through the demon’s hair. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”  
  
Crowley sobs, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck as if to stifle the crying. It’s such a relief to hear that his angel feels the same, but it aches all the same. It’s been so long, and Crowley is nowhere near worthy of Aziraphale, and he’s spent forever wishing he didn’t Fall so he could be this perfect thing that Aziraphale might actually want, and yet he’s being held and loved. It hurts wonderfully.  
  
“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers. Then repeats it. “I love you,” like an invocation, a blessing, a prayer, like forgiveness, like everything Crowley has ever cried for.  
  
“I love you,” Crowley says back when he finally finds his voice. He pulls back just far enough that he can face Aziraphale, tears and snot and pink cheeks and all. “I’ve loved you since the moment you told me you gave away your sword,” he admits.  
  
Aziraphale wipes away Crowley’s tears with his thumbs and returns a watery smile, bright blue eyes full of grace. “I’ve loved you since the moment you first smiled at me. I’m sorry it took me so long to admit that. It must have caused you so much pain, dearest.”  
  
Crowley does what he does best and attempts to deflect. The weak lop-sided shrug he manages is so unconvincing that it coaxes an amused snort out of Aziraphale. “You didn’t hurt me nearly as much as I hurt myself, thinking I didn’t deserve your love.”  
  
Aziraphale makes a pained noise and surges forward to kiss Crowley. It seems to stun both of them, but the shock fades quickly when Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and kisses back. It isn’t one of those terribly erotic kisses like in bad human romantic texts, but rather a kiss fuelled by passion and 6000 years of concealed love. It fills Crowley with a warmth the likes of which he’s never felt. He hums happily as Aziraphale tilts his head to deepen the kiss and runs his thumb along the shell of Crowley’s ear.  
  
When they do break apart, they only separate enough for Aziraphale to reach up and pluck Crowley’s sunglasses off his face. “There we are,” he rumbles. “There’s those eyes I love.”  
  
Crowley shudders, knees going strangely weak. Lucky for him, Aziraphale is there to support him as he goes practically boneless. He nuzzles his nose into the soft curve of Aziraphale’s cheek before planting another quick kiss to the angel’s lips. “I quite like when you compliment me,” he realizes aloud.  
  
Aziraphale chuckles airily, sounding as dizzy as Crowley feels. “Well, you’re worthy of every compliment I can muster,” he says.  
  
Crowley hums longer than the last time, practically purring. “Now you’re just being unfair,” he teases.  
  
Aziraphale grins and gives Crowley a soft pat on the cheek. “I believe we’re due for a nice long nap, and I’ll compliment you until it puts you to sleep,” he suggests.  
  
Crowley would giggle if that were a thing he even knew how to do. Instead, he tucks his cheek to his shoulder in a shy gesture he’s only ever seen humans do. He’s sure his face is entirely pink by now, but he nods and lets Aziraphale escort him to the bedroom for that nice long nap. And the compliments, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in the Good Omens fandom since like 2012 and after the TV series I've absolutely nosedived back into my Big Big Feelings for Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship. I'm utterly obsessed with the message the miniseries presented (that yes it can hurt and be terrifying to love, but it is always worth it), and I have to scream incoherently and then gather those screams into fics. So strap in folks I've got a lot more comin'.  
> More fics incoming featuring Adam and The Them, my favorite ensemble.


End file.
